


Blood Has A Strange Effect

by Dard_E_Disco



Category: The Strange Vice Of Mrs Wardh (1971)
Genre: M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-11 01:18:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15304239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dard_E_Disco/pseuds/Dard_E_Disco
Summary: George goes to meet Jean and gives into their shared vice.





	Blood Has A Strange Effect

George was jubilant but he knew how to hide it. He was wearing sunglasses to disguise the triumph in his eyes, but a smirk still played about his mouth as he got out of the car and slammed the door. 

Jean was there, emerging out of the trees and shrubbery like the slippery snake he was. Handsome, sadistic, untrustworthy Jean. Julie never would have gotten over him. In a way, George felt he’d freed her by orchestrating her death. Freed her from Jean and their shared obsession with sex and violence. 

A strange vice to most, but maybe not so strange to George. He understood the allure of blood, especially when he looked at Jean - dressed in a clean blue shirt, his blonde hair bright against the sky and his skin smooth and tan - and wanted to draw it and derive pleasure from it. 

In some way, he supposed, he could excuse it as paying tribute to Julie. Sure, he might have played a large part in her torment and death, but he’d witnessed up close how much Jean had fucked her up. He could pay him back for her. 

Suddenly he wanted to, very much. 

“George!” Jean called his name, advancing with glittering dark eyes. “You’re a little late.” 

George smirked broadly. If the other man thought he could intimidate him, he was very wrong. The time for playing the gentle lover had ended with Julie’s last breath. Now he was who he was, and who he was was a man without mercy or morals. 

He’d carved his initial on an apple to tempt her, he’d carve it on Jean’s tawny skin to pay her a final tribute, like roses left on a grave. 

Jean glared at him. “I want the money. The weather here’s a bit too hot for me.”

Yes, the money. Jean would never see a penny of it. There was a gun concealed in a briefcase that would guarantee that. 

“Why are you panicking?” George asked. As far as the police were concerned, Jean was already dead.

“I’ll be drinking champagne on the Rio flight at midnight,” Jean said, so certain. 

George stared at him, his intensity concealed by his sunglasses. All Jean could see was his own reflection. 

“Your alibi is water-tight,” he reminded him. Being dead certainly exonerated someone from involvement in a murder. “Julie was a suicide.”

It was Jean’s turn to smirk. “Still, If I’m caught, you'll be caught. I want the money.”

 _Kill him quickly_. Neil had ordered that morning on the telephone. _I mean it George, we’re almost done. He’s the last piece. Don’t fuck it up_.

He was a professional. He burned cool where Jean burned hot. It didn’t matter what he chose to do in these final moments, his water would always douse the blonde’s fire. 

Inching closer, George leaned over enough to smell the rich scent of the other man’s cologne. It was nothing he would ever choose, but it was exciting. Jean lived in a crumbling villa, he played at being a photographer and surrounded himself with animals and perversions. He came from old money that had been frittered away. 

George had grown up with nothing, but now he had everything. 

Feeling a wonderful tension start to build inside him, he went back to the car and grabbed the gun. When he turned around, brandishing it, he saw the shock cross Jean’s face. His eyes widened and his mouth parted. 

“What are you doing?”

“It’s a double-cross,” George replied. “Surely you’re familiar?”

“You bastard.” Jean hissed the word through gritted teeth. 

“You didn’t think we’d let you live? Given how unreliable you are, it’s a wonder we trusted you remotely. I must say, you impressed us a little, but you’re a liability, Jean.”

“George!”

He supposed it was one thing to coat your neck with fake blood and play at being a corpse in a bath and quite another to be faced with actual elimination. Jean was coming all undone, trembling and clenching his jaw in a curious mixture of fight or flight and George was living for it. 

“On your knees,” he directed.

Jean obeyed. So tall and slender and cruelly graceful as he knelt on the dusty earth. 

George pressed the gun to his temple and watched him flinch. 

“Get on with it then.” Jean spat. 

Bravery. It was admirable. But his voice had wavered and betrayed his fear. 

George hit him. He slapped his face once, twice, three times. It was hard enough to split his lip and there! The smallest drop of crimson! It made Jean’s razor sharp features all the more beautiful and dangerous. 

Furious hazel eyes glared up at him. “You’re crazy.”

George took off his sunglasses and tossed them in the dirt. “Maybe.” He let Jean see how the blood affected him, saw it echoed back at him, and felt his triumph grow. 

“What will you do to live?” He asked. “What will you let me do?”

“To live?” Jean repeated uncertainly. “Just that?”

George laughed. “With the money.” He confirmed. “What will you do, Jean? We already know you’d kill a helpless woman for it. You can’t kill me. So you’ll have to do something else.” He slipped his free hand around Jean’s neck and squeezed, feeling the knobs of his spine and the tendons protesting such treatment. “Will you scream? Will you bleed? Will you enjoy it?”

Jean closed his eyes and drew in a shuddering breath. George pounced, smashing their mouths together in feral mockery of a kiss. He drew more blood, biting the other man’s lip and scraping the skin with his teeth. Jean gasped.

George drew back and looked at him. “Yes. You will.”

He ripped at Jean’s shirt and sent buttons scattering. When it hung in tatters he scratched his nails down the smooth, flat muscles and felt enormous satisfaction at the red welts which appeared in his wake. 

Jean tilted his head back, his eyelashes fluttering. 

George bit him, tearing his earlobe and then sucking hard at his neck. When Jean’s hand came up to tentatively touch his shoulder he crowed inwardly and fit the gun into the back of his jeans. Now he had both hands free and there was so much to touch and mark. 

Jean kissed him back this time, his ferocity a not entirely unexpected surprise. 

George pushed him to the ground and flipped him over onto his front, making sure to use his weight to force the man into the earth where the gravel would dig into his skin. 

Jean moaned.

“You really are sick,” George said, with no judgement. 

“You’re hard,” Jean replied. George thrust against him in response, his hands squeezing the sharp hipbones as he ground his cock against the other man’s buttocks. The fabric between them frustrated him. He wanted it fast and rough and he could hear just how much Jean wanted that too. 

He yanked at Jean’s hair and pulled his head back for another kiss. Then he shoved his fingers inside the wide mouth, feeling the sharp teeth, and let out a groan as his fingers were coated with saliva. 

Deftly, he unbuckled and unzipped them both. “This is all you get,” he said as he bared Jean’s asshole to his gaze and unceremoniously shoved his fingers in one by one. 

There was definite pain in the moan that followed. It spurred George on. He lined himself up and forced his way inside. Jean cried out, breathing heavily, and almost immediately pushed back into the punishing thrusts. 

It was no different really, than knocking on Julie’s backdoor, but God! he was so sick of being gentle and considerate! Jean took all his violence like someone longing for it. 

He bit him again, leaving a nasty mark, and then tugged him upright so that he could slam up into him with enough force to rattle his bones. He wrapped his hand back around his neck and waited until he started to struggle a little too earnestly before releasing him. 

“I hear that can make an orgasm more intense,” he said. 

“Yes,” Jean was breathless. “Yes.”

“I want you to scream my name.” George shoved him into the dirt again, rubbing his face against the sharp little stones and coarse sand, and thrust with unrelenting fury. He knew he had to be tearing him up inside, knew there would be more blood when he pulled out, and just the thought of it made his balls tighten in anticipation. 

“Come on. Scream it. Scream George. Scream it and you’ll be on that Rio flight with your money and the memory of my cock in your ass.”

Jean groaned helplessly and then, after another deep thrust, he sprayed his cum across the ground and bit his tongue trying to stop himself from screaming George’s name. 

“We should have done this before,” George panted, “but you were pretending to be dominant.”

“And you were pretending to be good,” Jean said. 

George laughed, increased his frenzy, and then came long and hard. He pulled out, not missing the mingled blood and cum that followed, and zipped up his trousers. 

It felt so good that he almost considered letting him live. But while there would be other bodies to abuse, there would never be another plan pulled off to such perfection. Jean was a liability. He had to die.


End file.
